


Things Unsaid Lead to Lives Unlived - The Sequel

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, Established Relationship, Jealous John, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Possessive John, Top John, Yay Smut Again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: This is an unplanned follow-up to Things Unsaid Lead to Lives Unlived. People seem to keep asking for a more dominant John, and this is based on an idea that has been ghosting around in the back of my mind for a while now. I'm not sure this John will be dominant enough for people who are really into dom/sub dynamics, but it's as good as it gets for me. He just doesn't get more dominant than that in my fics. He's madly in love with Sherlock, after all - who wouldn't get overwhelmed from time to time ;)?Summary: Irene Adler is not dead. Aren't we all a bit worried about that? Sherlock should be.Oh well, basically this is PWalP - pr0n with a little plot.I hope you'll enjoy!





	Things Unsaid Lead to Lives Unlived - The Sequel

It’s Saturday, but instead of sitting in my chair with a steaming cup of Speedy’s coffee in my hand and maybe reading the paper, I’m out on a case with Sherlock and Lestrade. Turns out that our Greg’s definition of what’s “his division” is rather fluid, shrinking and expanding with the severity of the current marital row and his desire to get out of the house at weekends.

We’re standing around the body of the deceased, which was found by a worried neighbour in the middle of his own living-room, and so far I haven’t been of much use. The man’s dead, but there are no signs of trauma, so we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to get more information. I say as much, and Sherlock gives me what I call The Eyebrow (Stating the _obvious_ , John? _Again?_ ), so I step back and let my two companions do what they do when a perfectly healthy-looking dead bloke shows up unexpectedly.

I’ve been calling Sherlock my boyfriend for almost five months now. Not out loud, mind you, because he’d kill me for it, but inside my head – and he _behaves_ like a boyfriend, so I guess that’s as good as it’s going to get when it comes to labels. 

I’m still working on establishing a somewhat “friendly” relationship with my soon-to-be ex-wife, but understandably she’s not too keen on seeing me more often than strictly necessary. She’s keeping me updated on the pregnancy, and I’m thankful for that. After what I did to her, that’s not to be taken for granted, after all. Sherlock knows that the topic is a sensitive one, but – very surprisingly and completely against his natural instincts of avoiding emotional entanglements of all sorts like the plague – tries to meet my need of discussing it with him by listening to my worries and occasionally even offering advice.

We share my upstairs bedroom now, because after that first time and him taking me apart so spectacularly, I deemed it more prudent to spare Mrs Hudson any more episodes of Baker Street Boys audio porn. He actually laughed out loud when I told him so, and it made me a little proud. I’m easy to please, it seems.

We have _a_ _lot_ of sex. I know I sound like a teenage boy when I say that, but I’m simply so amazed that Sherlock Holmes, the man whom I’d always thought to be an asexual genius who is above such mundane things as submitting to physical impulses, is so ardent a lover. He might look like a block of ice to most observers, but between the sheets it’s a different story.

He’s still the more dominant one in bed (or on the sofa, or in the shower, or, and I’m going to whisper that last one, _on the stairs leading up to our flat_ ), but for a man who’d never kissed another bloke before his best friend went and stole his heart and who hadn’t even watched gay porn once in his life I think I’m catching on quite fast. He lets me do to him whatever I want, and I’ve become more and more confident to try and leave my comfort zone – having him lying in front of me, naked and willing, makes it quite easy to get imaginative. We both got tested for everything right after our first night together, and after an annoying waiting period that felt much too long we’ve now gotten rid of the condoms – finally. When he spilled himself inside of me for the first time, I almost cried. We were together completely then, and he held me through the aftershocks of my own orgasm and told me he loved me, and then I _really_ cried, but he pretended not to notice. So far, that was probably the best night of my life.

In short, it’s all almost too good to be true. And you know how it goes when somebody makes such a remark. Exactly. Something not good is going to happen soon. Something _very_ not good.

I let my gaze wander around the room, trying to deduce what kind of man our body used to be before he came to this unfortunate end, so that I can later compare my ideas with Sherlock’s observations (and let him prove me wrong). He liked books. His taste in furniture definitely gravitated to the Scandinavian. The DVDs stacked next to the TV say he was into Sci-Fi; there’s quite a bit of New Who and Star Trek. His shoes---

“ _Ahhh_ ,” says Sherlock’s phone.

I get jerked out of my ponderings so abruptly that I rick my neck when I turn around to look at him in disbelief. He’s frozen in place, his eyes the only living thing in his body right now. He’s staring at me, a slight tinge of panic in his aquamarine gaze, and I smile coldly.

“Hey, isn’t that the one from Christmas a few years ago?” Lestrade asks, looking mildly amused.

Sherlock purses his lips, his eyes still fixed on mine.

“Yes, very observant, Greg. Now back to this dead man over here, if you please.”

He must be upset – he forgot to call him some other name starting with G. I suppress the hot wave of jealousy rising up inside of me and turn away again.

He’s got to be _kidding_.

\---

This is the longest day of my life.

We examine the man’s flat.

We go to the morgue.

We talk to Anderson, which I perceive as especially trying in my current condition.

Mary calls me about divorce papers and lawyer appointments.

Mycroft calls Sherlock about something mysterious and top secret that I don’t understand and don’t care about.

The only mystery I’m interested in at the moment is how a dead woman can still be sending texts to, yes, _sod it_ , my boyfriend. _My_ boyfriend.

\---

The cab ride home to Baker Street is spent in silence – icy on my part, guilty on his.

When we’re there, I get out briskly and leave him to pay the driver, which is new, but he doesn’t complain. He just follows me to the door, waits for me to open it, and shuffles past me with an insecure sideways glance when I hold it open to let him enter the hallway first.

The door clicks shut behind me, and we’re finally alone.

I grab his arm to keep him from going up the stairs, and he turns around slowly and looks at me, his face far from its usual impassive state.

“You do realise that you’re making it worse by looking so guilty, don’t you?” I ask.

He shrugs.

I inhale through my nose, trying to stay calm and knowing that I’ll fail. The embers of my anger, having been stoked over the course of a whole day, flare up again with vengeance, and I remove my hand from his arm and put it on his chest instead. He looks at it and then back at my face, and then he bites his lip. He’s lost for words, which is not a good sign. Not at all.

I push him – none too gently – against the wall, and he huffs in surprise and holds on to my shoulders to keep his balance.

“Sherlock? What do you have to say for yourself?” I ask.

He swallows.

“She texts me occasionally. I never answer. It’s just good to know she’s still alive.”

Oh, _is it_.

“How long have you known that she’s not dead?”

He smirks, and suddenly it almost looks as if he was back to his normal self. Almost. There’s still a hint of apprehension in the curve of his lips, which drives me crazy, because why be apprehensive if you’ve got nothing to hide?

“ _You_ told me she wasn’t dead,” he says.

I laugh, but without mirth.

“Well, I’m sure that by now you know that that was a lie – or something I _assumed_ to be a lie. A lie I told you to protect you.”

He nods briefly, his fingers tightening their grip on my shoulders.

“Yes. And believe it or not, I appreciated that.”

That’s as sweet as his talk is ever going to get outside the bedroom, but I’m not going to be wooed by it. Her ghost is standing right next to us, so present that I can almost smell her perfume and see her lick her lips as she undresses him with her eyes. I can’t bear it.

“How long, Sherlock?” I repeat.

He hesitates.

“Always. I saved her from being decapitated in Karachi.”

My stomach drops.

“You _what?_ Why--- Why did you never tell me?”

He could have died there. He went and fought a bunch of insane, blood-thirsty terrorists with nothing to lose and an eternity in paradise to win, just to save Irene Adler. And if he had died, I would have stayed behind. I would never have known.

He looks at me and frowns, but he’s always been able to read me so well, so I just wait until he gets there. After about ten seconds his expression softens and he strokes his thumbs along the edges of my collarbone.

“John,” he murmurs, “I was perfectly capable of defeating them. I always knew I’d come back.”

“You _couldn’t_ know that. You might be brilliant, but you can’t see into the future like that, Sherlock. No one can!”

I’m mad at him, and hurt, and mad at myself because I’m hurt. He saved a person’s life, which is, in itself, a noble act. But it was Irene Adler’s life, and the implications are killing me. Images of the two of them, lying in a bed in a hotel in Pakistan, their naked limbs entwined, are filling my head. I see her perfect body driving him wild; I see the sweat glistening on their skin; I see his face contorted in the climax she’s pulled from him with whatever fancy technique she employs to keep her clients satisfied.

My heart is pounding; I want to punch something. And he can tell.

“John, all we ever did was _talk_.” He looks at me, his eyes slightly desperate. “I never touched her. And I didn’t want to. Believe me.”

This doesn’t help. It’s bizarre, because I can’t even count the number of girlfriends that came and went while we were living together, and I know that this couldn’t have been pleasant for him. I never really felt anything for any of them, though. And he was _fascinated_ by Irene, and she by him. That’s worse, isn’t it?

“She was in love with you. Probably still is.”

He sighs a bit impatiently.

“I know. And I was in love with _you_ , John, and I still am. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m as gay as it gets if you’re a mostly abstinent sociopath. And mostly abstinent is what I _was_ back then.”

I’m taken aback. He never told me that he identified as gay. He also never told me when he started to see more in me than just a flatmate or friend, but I always knew that it had taken _me_ much, much longer to realise what I felt for him. He was in love with me when we worked on the Adler case? Irene told me we were “a couple” – does that mean I could have had _this_ , everything that I have now, all this time? But I didn’t want it then, did I? Fuck.

“Did you hear what I said?”

His voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I look up from where I’ve been staring at something in the vicinity of his chin and into his eyes again.

“I’m in love with _you_ , John.” He gives me a crooked smile. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll prove it to you.”

\---

“This conversation is not over, you know.”

We’re inside the flat now, just behind the door, and I crowd him against it and press my body against his front to trap him there. It reminds me of the morning that changed everything, only that this time, our roles are reversed.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her, Sherlock? If there’s nothing there, why not tell me?”

He lifts his chin, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down nervously.

“I forgot about her, John. There were more important things to occupy myself with – more important _people_ , too.”

He looks at me meaningfully. There’s the Holmes version of sweet talk again, but I’m not having it.

“You were awfully distraught when I caught you out today.”

He snorts.

“You didn’t “catch me out”! There’s nothing to catch there, John! Besides – you’re hardly the one to talk, what with Mary---“

Oh, he’s _not_ going to go there.

I interrupt him by twisting my fists in the lapels of his coat and shaking him once, and he falls silent when his back bumps against the wood and makes the door wobble in its frame. I’m scared by how exhilarating it feels to see him wince. It hurts a little. Good.

“Mary’s not my little secret, though, is she?” I whisper furiously, bringing my face up to his.

“You’re overreacting,” he says, his voice low and breathy.

Maybe he’s right. But I swore to myself that now, with us being together, there would be no more lies, no more unknown factors, no more unsaid things that will one day come between us. I’m disappointed that he’s not being as honest with me.

“I don’t fucking care. You didn’t even change the fucking message alert! What am I supposed to make of that?” I snap.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I suppose it was just a joke to me, something to remind me of the case. I don’t know, John. Tell me what I have to do to prove it to you! I’ll do anything.”

_Anything._

I take a deep breath, his scent filling my nostrils, my lungs, my whole being. My fingers open and slide along his arms until they reach his hands. He shivers against me, and with a growl I grab his wrists and pull his arms up and above his head to press the backs of his hands against the door. He moans and laces his fingers through mine. We look at each other for a moment, both panting, our lips almost touching. His open coat brushes my sides. I feel his cock harden and strain against his tight-fitting trousers, and I’m not far behind myself.

“You’ll do absolutely _nothing_ ,” I hiss against his mouth, barely audibly, but from the way he shudders in response I can tell that he can hear me alright. “ _I’ll_ do things to _you_.”

He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. I know he’s yearning to kiss me, because I feel the same pull, the same desire to close the distance between our faces and feel his warmth, his slick tongue, his soft lips against mine.

I don’t give in to the urge. He’ll be begging for it before the night is over.

I grind my hips against his to give him an idea of what awaits him and imagine myself gripping the collar of his shirt and _pulling_ , making buttons fly everywhere. The fact that it’s my favourite shirt of his is the only reason why I don’t make the fantasy come true immediately. Maybe next time. But there are other things I want to do tonight, things that require a bit of preparation.

“We’re going to take a shower,” I tell him, and he just moans again without opening his eyes. I breathe against his lips, feeling the damp air he exhales on my tongue. ”I need you nice and clean for later.”

\---

In all my former relationships, I was never too keen on showering together – the logistics were difficult, you couldn’t get into the positions you really wanted to without running the risk of bone fractures, and all in all it was much more of a bother than it was worth. But that was then.

With Sherlock, it’s different. I love washing him, I love being touched all over by his large, nimble hands, and one time I even let him fuck me right against the shower wall, my cheek pressed against the cool tiles, his arm around my chest, and his hot, quick moans in my ear. Who knew there was waterproof lube? I still remember coming all over his wet hand and the wall. I still remember how good it felt.

Right now I’m washing his hair, his beautiful dark curls, and before rinsing his head I grip a handful and _pull_ , and he groans and bares his neck for me to lick, suck, and bite. His penis is standing proud, full and heavy and a lovely shade of pink, bumping against my body every so often since we’re so close, but I haven’t touched him yet.

“Please,” he breathes. “ _Please_ …”

I ignore him and point the shower head at his face to wash the bubbling foam out of his hair, and he closes his eyes and lets me do as I like. I watch him as I draw it out longer than necessary, and just when I feel him relax under the warm spray, I grab his upper arm and push to turn him around. He jumps a little, but offers me his backside without a word.

“Lean against the wall,” I tell him, keeping my voice level. It’s difficult, because seeing him like this, naked and wet and _obedient_ , nearly drives me crazy with lust.

He complies and rests his hands and forehead against the wall, keeping completely still.

I take some of his ridiculously expensive body wash and lather up my hands.

“You’ll make no sound,” I say, my tone more gravelly than intended. “No sound at all.”

He nods, his shoulders going tense and his fingers spreading against the cream-coloured tiles they’re resting on. He’s bracing himself.

I put my hands on his arse, cupping the two firm globes for a second before grabbing them more tightly and letting my thumbs slip into his crack. My slick palms make an obscene sound when they squeeze his flesh, and I allow myself a small moan. It’s already so good, and it’s only going to get better. He stays silent.

“No sound,” I repeat, whispering, and then I press one of my thumbs against his opening and breach the tight ring of muscle without teasing, without getting him ready for it in any way.

He inhales sharply, but I know it’s not hurting him – my nails are short, my fingers slick with soap, and his arse is used to more than just the tip of a thumb.

He didn’t keep to the rules, though, so I pull my hand away again.

“That _was_ a sound, don’t you think?” I ask casually. Inside, I’m dying for his body pressed against mine, for his heat all around me. He mustn’t know.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t stop…”

His voice sounds young and pure, its usual dark timbre gone for the moment.

I pretend to ponder over this.

“You’ll have to do better if you want more,” I say.

He nods again, more vigorously this time.

“I promise,” he whispers.

It’s so sexy to hear him like that.

“Well then… one more try.”

I reach down again to circle his hole, nudging him lightly, much too lightly to push inside, and goose-bumps spread all over his back and arms.

This is wonderful. He’s so responsive.

“Be good,” I coo, somehow slipping into my role as easily as he’s slipped into his.

Only later will it occur to me that this might be one of the reasons why Sherlock was so interested in Irene. Maybe he’s always wanted to be dominated like this, but didn’t know it. Or maybe he didn’t know how – and _who_ – to ask for it. A woman wouldn’t do it for him. And the man he wanted was still blind, then. I’d never inflict real pain on him in bed, not even if he asked for it, I think. But I know that he’s probably longing for a different kind of play anyway – he wants to be out of control, to be the one following orders, to be allowed to just let go. I can give him that anytime he needs it.

I’m not thinking about this yet. I’m pressing into him now, slowly, up to the first knuckle, then up to the second. He starts to vibrate around me, but doesn’t make a single sound. Not even a gasp. I sneak a glance at his face and find it contorted in a grimace of ecstasy, his eyes closed tightly, his mouth open and panting silently. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to distract myself from the rush of heat pooling in my lower body at the sight.

“ _Mmhhh_ , good, Sherlock… You’re being so good…” I rumble.

I pull back and thrust in again, once, twice, and his body pulls me in eagerly, the lather on my hands making the slide easy for both of us. I twist my hand and thrust a bit faster, and his fingertips turn white against the wall.

“Yes, baby, you’re _so good_ …” I repeat and then pull out of him completely, just to come back right away with my middle and index finger.

I meet no barriers whatsoever as I enter him again. He’s slack and ready for me, and now I can finally reach the spot I’ve been desperate to tease ever since I opened him with my thumb. I put my fingertips against his prostate, brushing it with the most gentle of touches, and his hands ball into fists. His back is heaving with deep, soundless breaths and his knees are shaking a little.

“Ah, Sherlock, _God_ … You should see yourself… So _sexy_ …” I mutter and bend forwards to kiss the nape of his neck. “Are you leaking already, hm? Oh, I’m so looking forward to taking your cock in my hand, to feel how wet you are for me… But not yet, love… Not _yet_ …”

He convulses around my fingers and I look at his profile again to find tears trickling out of the corner of his eye. He seems to sense my gaze being directed at him then, because his lid flutters open and he looks at me. And then he smiles. It’s the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I know he’d tell me if he wasn’t, but I want to make sure.

He nods.

“Do you want to make some sounds now?”

He nods again. The iris of the eye I can see is glazed over with arousal.

“You’re allowed to,” I tell him, and he bites his bottom lip and smiles a bit more. His eye slides shut again.

I pull my fingers out almost entirely and then give him a few firm, quick thrusts, and a low, drawn-out groan bubbles out of his throat. I crook my fingers to find his sweet spot again, this time building up more pressure, and the groan turns into a half-yell that will hopefully not traumatise Mrs Hudson.

“ _Ye-esss_ , oh _Go-ooohhhd_ …” he slurs, almost sobbing. “ _Johnnnn_ …”

I’m panting now, too, even though he’s the one being touched. This is about as far as I’ve ever gone with him – two fingers. Somehow I wasn’t ready for more, and to my own surprise I’ve found out that I _love_ bottoming. Who would have thought? But now I am ready. I’ll take him, put my cock into him and fuck him until he can’t see straight anymore.

Later.

The thought alone leaves me breathless, and I revel in his stuttering moans as I move my hand in a steady rhythm that I know will drive him insane, but won’t be enough to give him an orgasm yet.

“Sherlock, yes, so _good_ … I’ll make you come so _hard_ tonight… You’ll scream my name tonight, Sherlock…”

He hums and then gasps for air when I pull out without warning.

“No, _please_ …” he sighs. “Please!”

“Wait,” I tell him. “Don’t move. Don’t touch yourself.”

I need the shower head again. I take it off its mounting and point it right at his arse, rinsing the soap off his cheeks, and when my hands are clean as well I enter him with one finger again to clean him from the inside, too.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he hisses. “God!”

“Yeah,” I growl, because I want it, want him, _right now_ , and when I’m satisfied that he’s as clean as he’s going to get, I switch off the shower, put the shower head back on its bar, and sink to my knees behind him.

He jerks and cranes his neck to look down at me, his whole body flushed with pink, his breath loud and fast. I lick a broad stripe over each of his cheeks, and then I just press my face between them and suck at his opening, my tongue sneaking out to push inside.

“Oh God, oh God,” he pants. “Oh _God_ …”

Sherlock, incoherent. My favourite.

He’s still stretched a little, which makes it easy for me to press my tongue into him as far as it will go. He grunts and slaps the wall with his hand. I listen to his sounds of pleasure as I vary my strokes and licks, sometimes going deep, sometimes only breaching the rim, sometimes using my teeth to nibble and pull. His thighs are trembling by now, and I know that soon we’ll have to take this to the bedroom. I’m not going to let him finish like this. Not here, and not for a very long time, if I can help it.

His right hand strays towards his cock, and I almost miss it, but as soon as I realise what he’s about to do, I pull away and grab his wrist to stop him.

He whines as I effectively rob him of both sensations he wants, but I’m not going to take pity on him.

“I thought I told you not to touch yourself.”

“ _John_ \---“

“You’ll do what I say, or I’ll stop. Have I made myself clear?”

This is Captain John Watson talking, and he’s not to be messed with.

Sherlock huffs, sounding half desperate, half annoyed, but relaxes into my grip.

“Yes,” he mumbles.

I get up, less than gracefully, but fortunately he’s not looking right now.

“You’ll dry yourself now,” I say and press my front against his back, rubbing my cock against him and moaning as the friction takes the edge off my arousal at least a little bit. “You’ll dry yourself and go to the bedroom to wait for me. If you touch yourself any more than necessary, I’ll know,” I rumble into his wet hair. “If you touch yourself. I’ll. _Stop_. Get it?”

He’s back to nodding, apparently lost for words. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. I smile and nuzzle his neck.

“You’ll be rewarded, Sherlock… Have a little patience.”

I’m talking to myself as much as to him, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Patience. It will be good. Tonight, I’ll take what’s _mine_.

\---

I give him a head start to the bedroom for no other reason than to make him wait for me and take my time getting ready. I don’t leave my hair wet and tousled, but towel it mostly dry and then run my hands through it to give it the slightly dishevelled out-of-bed look he likes, and then I even take a bit of aftershave and put it on because I know he enjoys the smell.

I know he won’t disobey me. I know he’s on the bed right now, not touching himself. He loves a challenge, and this is one. He’ll only try to bend the rules when he knows I can see, because then he’ll be punished. He’ll probably try and push me to see where my boundaries are. I don’t know myself, so this will be an interesting ride for both of us.

When I feel that he’s waited long enough, I make my way to the bedroom. The stairs creak when I climb them, and with each step I feel my excitement grow.

I’ve never done anything like this with anyone, and I’d never have thought I’d enjoy it so much.

The door is open and he’s waiting for me on the bed, lying flat on his back, his arms at his sides. He’s still as hard as he was when he left the bathroom, and he’s looking at the ceiling, not turning his head when I enter. I grin to myself. We can play all we want, but he’s never going to stop being his defiant self entirely. I love it.

Slowly, I make my way to the bed, my bare feet slapping on the polished wood of the floorboards. I stare at his face, willing him to look at me, and eventually, he does.

“You’re mine tonight,” I tell him, giving my voice a possessive twinge. “All. _Mine_.”

He licks his lips and stares at me out of huge, dark eyes. He doesn’t reply.

I smirk.

Instead of climbing onto the bed with him from the side, I make a small detour to get the lube from the bedside table and then position myself at the foot of the bed.

“Spread your legs,” I order, and he complies, albeit a bit too slowly for my liking.

I lean down and reach for his ankles to help the process along, and he gasps when I push his legs into the position I want. There’s a hungry look in his eyes when they meet mine again, and a barely noticeable smile is playing at the corner of his lips. He likes it. My heart beats faster at the thought, but on the outside, I play it cool.

“If you follow the rules, you’ll get your reward,” I say sternly. “If you don’t, I’ll stop and you can go and have a wank on your own.”

He runs his palms over his chest, provocatively pinching a nipple as he goes.

“What are the rules?” he asks silkily.

I kneel down in between his legs and take his hands in mine, putting them beside his head and holding them there as I sink down on top of him. He’s warm and solid, and as always when we have full-body contact, I melt into him for a second to savour it. But I don’t revel in the feeling too long, because this is not about me. Not yet.

He utters a short groan when I slide my cock against his in one long, deft thrust before stilling my body again, giving him heat, but no friction.

“ _Tease_ ,” he says through bared teeth, but I just smile and don’t move at all.

“You’re not to touch yourself anywhere, except if I tell you to,” I start.

He swallows loudly, then nods.

“If I tell you to be quiet, you are,” I continue.

He nods again. His hands twitch against mine, and I caress them with my fingertips.

“And you’re not going to come before I say so.”

His breathing accelerates. He hesitates, but then nods a third time.

“Good,” I murmur. “Good…”

I press my lips on his in a long, slow kiss. He reciprocates in kind, humming into my mouth and rubbing his tongue against mine the way I love it. I get lost in it for a moment, but soon the feeling of his cock throbbing next to mine reminds me of what I want to do to him. I pull back after nipping his full bottom lip and he follows me with his head, groaning pitifully when he realises it’s over.

“Sshhh… You can make one wish.” I lean down again to speak directly into his ear. “What do you want most right now?”

He shudders underneath me when I lightly bite his ear.

“You--- What you did before. In the shower,” he answers in a low, husky voice.

I kiss his earlobe.

“Say it. I’ll do it if you say it.”

He shifts restlessly, clearly made uncomfortable by my request, but I want to push him just a little bit further.

“John…”

“I want to hear you say it, love…”

He stops fidgeting.

“Please…” he says. “Put your tongue inside of me. Inside my---” He closes his eyes and turns his head away. “Inside my arse,” he finishes, whispering.

He’s blushing violently, not only on his cheekbones, but also all over his neck and chest. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

“Good,” I say. “You’re so beautiful when you blush like that.”

He chuckles weakly, and I let go of his hands to move down his body until I come to rest between his thighs again.

“Keep your arms over your head,” I order and pull his legs up and against his body to open him up for me. “You can grip the headboard if it helps.”

This time, I have more control over the situation because I’m not as dizzy with desire as I was in the shower, and I start by lightly circling his entrance with the tip of my tongue only. He whimpers again, and by now I think I could get used to him making that sound.

“Can I--- Can I be loud?” he presses out, panting.

“Ah, _yes_ ,” I sigh and kiss the little puckered ring twitching against my lips. “Let me hear you, baby; I love your moans…” 

“Mmmhhhh…” he hums, his deep voice ringing in the otherwise quiet room.

It sounds divine, and I want to hear more, so I lick through the whole length of his crack, from bottom to top, ending with a small flick at his perineum.

“Hnnggg… _God!_ ” he moans. “Again, please, _please_ …”

I grin. _No._

Ignoring his pleas, I push my tongue against his opening, thrusting it back and forth until I feel his sphincter give way and stretch around the intrusion. He’s moaning and gasping continuously now, his fingers clawing at the headboard of my bed.

“ _Hahhh_ … Let go, yes…” I pant and lick into his hole, listening to his moans and establishing a rhythm of in and out, and soon he starts writhing and bucking against my face.

“Oh God, _John_ … Please, oh _God_ , I need--- need… Oh _God_ , more, more, _please!_ ”

I just growl against his arse, not stopping my ministrations, and the vibrations of my voice seem to be the final straw for him. He sobs out a hoarse groan and starts to cry.

“ _Please_ \--- Your fingers, your _cock_ , just _more_ , please… I can’t--- Oh _God_ , I can’t…”

I growl again, more loudly this time.

“Oh--- _God!_ ” His voice breaks. “Please! Please!”

I imagine what it would be like to call Irene now, to wait until she picked up and to then just put his phone on the bed, right next to his pillow, so that she could listen to me doing this to him. The idea turns me on so much that I’m slightly alarmed, but I also know that that’s what it is – an idea, a fantasy. In reality, I’d never share him with anybody. This is only for me and him.

“ _Ungh!_ ”

He sounds as if he’s hyperventilating, and after sucking at him one last time, taking care to get him nice and wet, I let go of him, replacing my tongue with my middle finger immediately to keep him on the edge. This is too intense to be stopped now, and I congratulate myself on thinking of looking for the lube before getting started. I couldn’t have interrupted this now; it would have been a shame. I grab the bottle and haphazardly pour some of the clear liquid between his cheeks and onto the finger that’s already halfway inside of him, and spread it all over with my next thrust, using my index finger as well.

He howls when I go for his prostate right away, and I watch, mesmerised, how the indirect stimulation causes his cock to jerk upwards and begin to leak thick drops of precome that collect at his tip and then run down his shaft.

“Oh _fuck_ , you’re amazing,” I mutter, my own cock twitching in sympathy, but I don’t think he can hear me over his own noises.

He’s so wet already, and I haven’t even really started yet. I use my free hand to wipe at the leftover lube collecting in his crack and give my cock a rough stroke to get it slick as well, and the short touch almost makes me come undone. I’m hornier than I’ve ever been, but I’m not finished with him yet.

“Don’t come,” I gasp and bend over to take his tip into my mouth and suck on it, simultaneously putting another finger inside of him along with the first two, and immediately a spurt of hot fluid hits my tongue.

“Oh God,” he wheezes, “Oh God, _please_ , I need to come… Please, please, please…”

I rub my tongue against the sensitive spot right under the head of his cock and move my hand a little faster, spreading my fingers to stretch him wider still, and he almost screams.

“ _Stop!_ I’m going to--- come!”

I let him go and pull my hand away, straightening up to look at his face.

“No, you’re not. You’re _not_ , Sherlock.”

He whines lowly, his cheeks wet with tears and sweat.

“ _No_ …” he repeats after me and heaves a long breath, and another one. “I’m not, I’m _not_ …”

“Good.” I get up on my knees again to align myself with his opening. “You’ll come when I tell you to, won’t you…”

I hold my tip against his twitching hole for a moment, teasing him and myself until neither of us can take any more, and then I push inside.

“Oh _God_ ,” we pant in unison.

It’s _so_ hot. He’s like a furnace. I know what he feels like around my fingers, but this is so different. I feel every ridge inside of him and the texture of his inner walls, so wonderfully slick and silky, and as soon as I’m embedded to the hilt, his body starts milking me with the rhythmic contractions of his passage. He’s close.

“Say you’re mine,” I tell him and start to thrust, going hard and fast right away because I know there won’t be time for a languid pace. “Say. You’re. _Mine_.”

His eyes roll back in his head.

“I’m--- _yours_ ,” he groans. “Yours, _John_ , yours…”

His thighs begin to shake against me.

I wanted to draw this out a little longer, wanted to play with him a little more, maybe see if he can keep quiet as I fuck him harder still, but I can't. It's not going to happen tonight. I need to come, too.

“Oh God,” he gasps. “Harder, please… _harder_ \---”

I know that I like it when he thrusts from below because it’s more likely that he’ll hit my prostate that way, so I try to give it to him just like that, going harder when he begs for it, and my bollocks draw up against my body, telling me that I don’t have long. He’s in a similar state, but he might require more to be able to finish, and I want to give him everything he needs.

“Baby,” I gasp. “Can you… come like that?”

He moans and shakes his head.

“I--- don’t _know_ …”

He sounds desperate. His cock is weeping, and I reach for it to wrap my fingers around his slick length. He is like steel wrapped in silk, pulsing in my hand, and I make a tight fist around him while I keep on thrusting, using my other hand to hold onto his thigh for leverage.

“Fu-uck--- _oh!_ ” he groans.

I clench my teeth. I need to last until he’s there as well.

“Sherlock… _Come_ now… Come on, let _go_ ,” I urge him on. “Let it happen now, love…”

He’s still holding onto the headboard, but by now his knuckles have turned white.

I thrust deeply and massage the vein on the underside of his cock with the pad of my thumb.

“I want you to _come_ ,” I repeat, and suddenly he looks at me with such intensity that it takes my breath away.

“ _Now_ ,” he whispers, sounding almost surprised.

And then he really screams my name.

\---

We lie together afterwards, breathing heavily and covered in sweat, lube, and come, but I can’t make myself get up and leave to get a flannel from the bathroom. He’s in my arms, looking thoroughly debauched, and I don’t want to let him go ever again.

My brain is still replaying him coming all over himself a few minutes ago, and when I say _all over_ himself, I mean it – he even managed to hit his own face, and _that_ streak at least got cleaned up right away. I just leaned forwards in the middle of his climax, one hand still on his cock and the other coming to land beside his head, to lick the white liquid off his cheek, and then I came, too, and buried my face in his neck and closed my eyes to do a bit of screaming myself. He let go of the headboard then and put his trembling arms around my back, and we shivered through the shocks together until we were both spent.

Now everything is hot and humid and very sticky, but I’ve never felt better. He’s panting against my chest, his head resting on my shoulder, and I can still feel the memory of his tight heat gripping my cock in orgasm. I grin to myself. Topping is fun, too.

“I’m yours,” he suddenly whispers, startling me a bit. “Are you still mad at me?”

I laugh soundlessly.

“No, I’m not… But I never want to hear that message alert again. Could you change it, please?”

He nods, his curls tickling my nose.

“Yes. I’ll go and do that as soon as I can feel my legs again.”

“No rush,” I mumble and pull him a bit tighter against me to kiss his temple.

He’s mine.

He rubs his cheek against my left nipple and sighs.

“Do we have to have another fight before we can do that again?” he asks quietly and then raises his head to look at me.

I roll my eyes.

“Shut up,” I whisper and kiss him.

\---

It’s Sunday morning.

Irene Adler is standing at the window of the flat she rented a week ago, holding a cup of tea in her hands and sipping it slowly.

She’s been back in London for three days, but she can’t bring herself to call. What if he’s not even here anymore? He never responds to her texts – would he even pick up the phone? And even if he still lived here, would he be willing to see her, to talk to her? She hates herself a little for feeling so weak and insecure – he’s just a man, after all. But he’s _not_. After all these years, why does she still think of him at all?

She gets torn out of her musings when the door of the building opposite hers opens, and for the fraction of a second she readies herself for yet another disappointment in the form of the old landlady, but no, it’s him. It’s _him_.

She has to breathe deeply to calm herself.

He looks exactly the same. His face, his hair – even the coat is still the same. Is it the exact same one she brought back to him and then stole a kiss from his half-conscious mouth while she was at it? From this distance, she can’t tell.

He steps outside and squints against the pale morning sun, holding the door open for another person coming after him.

It’s John. Who else.

She watches as they fall into step beside each other, just like she saw them do back in the day, but then Sherlock stops and takes John’s hand in his to pull him towards him. He says something while looking deeply into the other man’s eyes, and then he puts his free hand on his neck and draws him in for a kiss.

Irene’s heart skips a beat.

Sherlock’s lids are closed and she can only see the back of John’s head, but the way their fingers entwine as they kiss tells her everything she needs to know.

She laughs softly to herself and tries to fight back the stupid, _silly_ tears pressing against the insides of her eyelids. So he’s finally realised. Lucky man. Lucky little John.

She knew it. She’d been right all this time, so why doesn’t this feel better?

She can’t tear her gaze away. When they finally part, Sherlock smiles at John, and this almost hurts as much as the physical intimacy, because it’s a smile that says more than a thousand words and that she’s sure is reserved for John, and him alone.

The two men continue on their way, and she looks after them, thinking about which city, which country she should try next, when Sherlock suddenly looks up mid-stride – directly at her face. She gasps. He doesn’t stop walking as he locks eyes with her, and behind John’s back, he raises his arm in a gesture of farewell. She mirrors him, her hand coming up to give a small wave without her telling it to, and he nods and turns his head away again.

They disappear around the corner.

She shakes her head and takes another sip of her tea. He must have known she was here, watching, waiting for him. The great detective. Why had she thought she could hide from him?

Well.

It had been worth a shot.

Goodbye then, Mr Holmes.

This time, for good.


End file.
